Sometimes, I want to burn everything I’ve created into ashes. Let every page go up in smoke, every word turned into dust. Let no one know about my stories. Every poem will cease to exist. After all, that’s what everyone wants. That’s what they claim. I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy of being on a bookshelf. Therefore, let’s take the whole bookshelf down.
            I’m sorry, I must pass.
            I’m sorry as well. I’m sorry it came down to this. I’m sorry that I wasted my time and your time and every single second on this junk. I wonder if any human eyes looked at a word I wrote down. Probably not. These days, no one’s glancing at what I’ve written. It’s my heart on the pages and they’re being pushed aside. Oh well, I think I’ll burn them down instead. No reason to look at it anymore.
            So, I piled everything into the middle of the garden. The rejections, the passes, the sweet notes that aren’t really that sweet. There are the ones that are rooting for me, hoping I do well, and giving me those well wishes. None of them are true. They all have an agenda that I’m not a part of. I can fit into their boxes, but I’ll never be what they want. I’m not cute or wealthy or strong enough to make a mark in the world.
            This is not for me.
            Well, it won’t be for anyone. I’ve got the matches in my pocket. Taking one and striking it, I stare at the tiny flame before going to the pile of papers. My heart rips apart as my fingers tremble. Why did everyone push me here? This world is crumbling around me. Books are being banned. People are shut out of places they frequented before. History is being repeated and rewritten. No one wants to learn. No one cares for the truth. Why should I care to educate them?
            Keep your head up.
            Forget that. I hate it’s come down to this. The world isn’t built for kindness anymore. It isn’t built for people like me. Well, I can’t fall in line. I can burn what I used to be. I can turn this old junk to ash. The flame comes to the tip of my fingers. I let it fall onto the pile and wait for the flames to burst. Instead, it lies there for a second with the edges catching fire before going out.
            Not for me, thanks.
            I’m sorry but it’s not what I’m looking for.
            You don’t have what I want.
            Those words mesh in with all I get from the news. Why is the world falling apart around me? Why can’t I get over those words? They’re empty. They don’t hold weight. Still, I can’t shake them out. I can’t burn down all I’ve worked on. Those pages lie there with the edges burned, but words staring at me. I can’t do it. I can’t burn these down.
                        Gathering the old works, I blow off the ashes and put them to the side. I’m focusing on burning the wrong things. I can’t move on it I get rid of my work. I must move on in another way. Going through my pockets, I pull out all the rejections I’ve received. All of them sound the same.
            I’m sorry. Someone else will love this. Not for me. I wasn’t drawn in. I wasn’t pulled in. I wish you luck. I am rooting for you.
            I don’t put down any names, just the words. I forget who sends what. Putting them together in a pile, I lay them where my work used to be. My fingers no longer shaking, I strike another match and throw them on the rejections.
            This time, the fire grows, and those empty words of encouragement burn.

Cithara Patra currently lives in NC. They’ve written for a few literary journals including CafeLit, Poetries in English, The Quasar Review, Instant Noodles, and Flash Phantoms. In their spare time, they travel and check out brand new places to eat.